Page 7 of The Sweet Spot
“How’d it go?” Darlene asks when I finally make it back to my office.
“I arrested a tourist for disrupting the peace and simple battery. She’s cooling her entitled ass in jail as we speak.”
“Jennie’s okay?”
“She was manhandled a bit, but she’s okay. I’m off to do rounds now. See you later.”
I climb back into my SUV and head down Main Street through the tiny town of Bryce. We have three whole blocks of a downtown. Blink and you’ll miss it. As I pass the diner, I glance through the plate glass windows hoping I’ll catch a glimpse of Jennie. I spot her standing behind the counter, laughing as she pours coffee for our friends Ruth Jackson and Jack Merchant. They probably heard about the commotion this morning and came to check on Jennie. It’s a small town, and word travels fast. Maggie, who surely heard the commotion, undoubtedly called Ruth.
As I drive past the diner, I feel better knowing Jennie’s got friends visiting her. She’s not alone. There are a lot of people in town who would gladly jump to her aid, including me. I’ll always be at the front of the line.
* * *
I fell in love with Jennie Lopez when we were in the third grade. I was eight years old when I first laid eyes on the brown-skinned, black-haired beauty. She took my breath away the minute she walked into my classroom, and I haven’t breathed easy since. She was the new kid in town—the Mexican-Americanorphan who’d come to live with her white grandparents, Rosie and George Johnson, after her parents were killed in an automobile accident in Texas. A drunk driver had crossed the center line and hit Jennie’s parents’ car head-on. Jennie was not in the car at the time, or else she might not be here today.
Jennie’s arrival caused a bit of a firestorm at the time. While things are a lot better now, Bryce was pretty racially insulated back in those days. Jennie was one of the few Latinas in our town. Unfortunately for her, the local kids looked at her with a lot of distrust. Not only was shenewhere, but she wasdifferent—Mexican-American. She wasother.
But I didn’t care.
I thought she was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen in my life. And probably the smartest. And when I got to know her, I thought she was the nicest girl I’d ever met.
Later that same year, Micah Jackson showed up out of the blue—another new kid who wasother—this one part Native American, part White. He was an outcast from the very first day, openly snubbed by the White kids.
And as for me—I was already a loner. I was the bastard kid of the town tramp, and everyone not only knew it, but they never let me forget it. I came from the wrong side of town, from a rundown trailer park filled with drug addicts and other unsavory sorts. The other kids shunned me for it.
I guess it’s not surprising that the three of us glommed together like sticky rice—me, Jennie, and Micah. We just fit. And at the age of eight, we became best friends.The three amigos, Rosie used to call us when we’d gather at her diner every day after school for milkshakes and French fries. Rosie treated us all like we were her own kids. The diner was our safe place. We had each other, and that was all we needed.
In middle school, puberty struck, and that messed me up big time. Little Miss Jennie Lopez started developing like teenage girls do, and when that happened, she rocked my world.
I asked her to the eighth grade dance.
She said no.
I asked her to the Homecoming Dance our sophomore year of high school.
She said no.
I asked her to Prom our junior year of high school.
She said no.
So I stopped asking.
I finally took the hint and gave up because I didn’t want to risk our friendship over my stupid adolescent crush.
Being her friend was better than not having her in my lifeat all.
* * *
When I drive past Jackson’s Auto Repair Shop on the north end of town, I spot Micah standing out front, his head underneath the hood of a gray sedan. I park beside the car he’s working on and walk up to him. “Hey.”
Micah pops his head out from underneath the hood and nods. “Hey, man. How’s Jennie? She okay?”
Of course he already heard about the incident at the diner this morning. Micah’s older sister, Ruth, would have told him. “She’s fine. A female customer threw a tantrum and broke stuff.”
“I heard you arrested the woman.”
“Yeah. She was aggressive. Yelling, screaming, threatening the diner employees. She also broke a bunch of plates and mugs.” I peer at the engine he’s fiddling with. “What’s up?”
